


I Wanna Get My Hooks In You

by ghostwit



Category: One Piece
Genre: Alternate Universe - Circus, He's also uhh. Magnet man., Instead of pirates they're seafaring performing troupes., Kid's vocabulary is small lawl., Killer throws knives! Kid also throws knives!, Kinda! Still boats., M/M, Murder plots and the like... you know how these two are..., Pre-Relationship, Sharing a Bed, Strangers to Lovers, Trans Male Character, Unresolved Romantic Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-29
Updated: 2019-09-29
Packaged: 2020-11-02 18:10:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20810306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostwit/pseuds/ghostwit
Summary: The boy is young, eyes an impossible haematic red that reflect and pervert the pure vermeil of his thick, swept-back hair, devouring the light around him without the inhibitions that come with age, unclouded by self-consciousness. His grin, too, runs unchecked, splitting his face like an open wound (gaping and wet, Killer wants to feel the crooked ridge of teeth beneath his fingers, wants to slick them with his own blood, seal the gape with his own lips; He shakes his head at the thought.) and bunching the barely-there baby fat, the color of marscapone flecked with cinnamon.(The circus carries with it a special magic, always, crackling and zinging with something unidentified, engineered to sit right on the tip of your tongue, make you lean forward for more of it.)(Killer finds something familiar in another performer.)





	I Wanna Get My Hooks In You

The boy is young, eyes an impossible haematic red that reflect and pervert the pure vermeil of his thick, swept-back hair, devouring the light around him without the inhibitions that come with age, unclouded by self-consciousness. His grin, too, runs unchecked, splitting his face like an open wound (gaping and wet, Killer wants to feel the crooked ridge of teeth beneath his fingers, wants to slick them with his own blood, seal the gape with his own lips; He shakes his head at the thought.) and bunching the barely-there baby fat, the color of marscapone flecked with cinnamon. He’s well-built for his age, muscle packed tight along the exposed planes of his abdomen trailing up into a criss-crossing of abrasive buckram, yellowed and flecked with ruddy specks, overwhelming the slightest swell of his chest that makes the blonde wince as he notes just the barest hint of shortness of breath from the other. His legs are solid, wide and sturdy, one knee level to his hip to rest his foot on a stray crate and the other back to steady his position, freckled ankles exposed to the open air with the short cut of his leather pants, frayed at the end in a way almost considered dramatic, strips of hide hanging loose and quivering against him. Despite this--perhaps in the way his coat, tucked into his wide belt so as not to fall even as his arms and upper body are completely bare, swims and flaps around him even in the absence of wind (a small spectacle in itself), tacky purple flames adorning the bottom edge and swallowing the ends of the coat dwarfing the piceous leather of his boots-- he gives the impression of something absolutely ravenous, half-starved and mad with want. Killer can feel it, the hum coming from him, inexplicably alluring, a resonance built for his blood in particular, and he can’t help mirroring the other’s grin.

His fingers twitch, cordovan tight enough to his skin that his raised veins disturb his gloves, leather creasing and crimping them along the points of strain, and the blonde can hear the crowd that’s gathered murmur in confusion. His arms are raised like a conductor’s: elbows level with his shoulders and hands drawn into claws, and the crowd clamors collectively, attention drawn to the rusty anchor set at the other end of the makeshift-stage, metal poles with strips of leather sagging between them lazily along the edge of the port’s walkway, the show occupying a generous strip of road. Killer’s gaze remains fast on the performer, hands slipping into the denim of his pockets to curb the moisture gathering in the lines of his palms, and he’s rewarded with a quick glimpse of pink as the performer sets his own sanguine gaze on Killer and runs his tongue along his lower lip carelessly, coating it in waxy, dark lipstick. 

A woman’s shrill cry and a collective gasp is heard, and the rusty grind of metal on stoneーa noise that makes Killer’s teeth ring in pain, a feeling that makes him smileーreaching the youth from his position makes his eyes glint with success. The noise gets closer, louder, and the horde’s fervor pitches, people hollering as the anchor moves, others, skepticism narrowing their gazes, waving their arms wildly in front of them to feel for strings and eyes frantic to watch for mechanisms to ease the groaning slide. It’s faster now, whipping into the edge of Killer’s field of vision, and his stare finally shifts to follow it (the performer’s mouth twitches downward, a phenomena the crowd fails to witness), the anchor dwarfing the mass at the edges of the rope, groaning its way to the man at the other end. He grins, and it snaps to his outstretched arms, muscle taut and skin pink from quickened blood flow, his groan of effort overshadowed easily by the collective gasp of the crowd as the object, weighing at least a couple tons, Killer is sure, floats above his vaunted arms. He raises it, and the crowd marvels at the gap between the ferruginous edge of the mainstay and his twitching fingers, the metal quivering in time, before dropping his knee and removing his boot from the crate. He groans again, and the crowd is enraptured by every flutter of the man’s fingers, leaning forward wide-eyed to absorb the spectacle. His head swivels for the crowd, lingering just a moment on Killer (who closes his mouth absently, licking his lips as he does so to return the youth’s favor) before he lets out another yell, angry and vicious and slicked with effort and lets the anchor drop, the heavy thud of metal and the loud splintering of the wood of the crate as the wood scatters from displacement sending the horde into a frenzy.

“Are you  _ fucking _ entertained!” His roar is barely audible over the crowd, his head ducked, chin level to the soft dip of his collarbone and face forward to display the sleazy droop of his grin, limbs loose and hands fisting in the atrous fabric of his coat to conceal their minute shake. Killer keeps his hands deep in his pockets, nails biting flesh through the thick of his jeans, even as someone dressed in a garish red and black passes with a cap in hand and the crowd rushes forward to feel the rough edge of the anchor, marvel at its weight and size, the feat of the boy in front of them.

* * *

Killer watches as the boy-- Eustass Kid, stage name “Captain”, sixteen-seventeen (he thinks, he says, his smile easy and failing to betray any conflict over his uncertainty)-- raises his arms in a quivering arc to stretch above his head and make the younger groan quietly in relief; His coat lays abandoned to engulf Killer’s boots in purple flame, cheap staples lining the edge clinking against the leather of the blonde’s heels and his own feet bare against the rough wood of the ship’s floors. The elder’s sat on a cot set into the wall, blankets scant and rough, yet plentiful in comparison to the rather sparse room and lacking pillows, and he reaches to his tucked feet to lift the flashy coat, fold it. It makes it to settle on his lap, before Killer’s hands lose interest, reaching to gently unpin the cotton flush to the redhead’s back. It makes him groan, satisfied at the loss of pressure, and he carelessly reaches back to tear the rest of the cloth from his bosom, bawdy fabric harsh on his palms and chest as he pulls the entire wad to fling it across the quarters. The blonde’s fingers, longer and more graceful in their movement, find themselves on bare skin, reveling in the static of the soft contact for just a second too longーthough he supposes all of this is too intimate for a strangerーbefore drawing his hand back, his nail leaving a pink half-moon over the filemot fleck of a dark freckle. He’s out of reach, the scattering of freckles obscured completely by the dark of the room, save for a slice of skin, glowing flavescent in the lantern’s cast and soaking the albicant of his skin around the smattering of dots. His arms make the muscles in his back twitch as he rummages through a lone dresser, sparse with two drawers, the first of which is open and cast in shadow made by his own form. 

The blonde can nearly hear his head clicking with its effort to preserve the memory in its most pristine. 

Black fabric, a recurring trend with the performer, materializes, stretched thin between his arms as he lifts them above his head, catching in coquelicot hair and mussing it further before sliding down his torso, the color seeming to minimize the gentle swell of his chest. Killer hums quietly at the loss of skin, but Kid turns to smile at him and crosses the room in a single stride. He lays down, careless of the space the veritable stranger occupies, and yawns, reaching blindly for something to cover his bare arms. Killer supplies his half-folded coat, and Kid’s eyes spare him a smile, the black fabric bunched under his nose, fingers peeking from beneath to match their glossy shade against that of the coat. He hears the soft  _ pwumf-pwumf _ of an insistent palm tapping against the cot, and Killer rolls his eyes beneath his hair, yet lays regardless, fabric coarse enough to grate ever-so-slightly against the rough of his denim. He folds a blanket under his arm, and Kid eagerly wiggles up the cot to rest his head on the makeshift pillow. His breath is deep, Killer can tell the younger is still tired, and he reaches his other arm to soothe over the crease of his brow, and the redhead blinks blearily at the touch. The sheets, despite coarseness, are warm...

“I’m probably gonna just kill the bastard.”

Killer’s head snaps up at attention at the rough sound of the other’s voice, and his hand mirrors, snapping to find the skin of his other wrist, nails skimming past each other fast enough to draw blood. 

“Oi, quit it.” Kid smacks at Killer’s injured wrist from beneath the dark swell of fabric, the sound of skin-on-skin resounding longer than the sharp prick of pain at the contact point. “Cranky or some shit?” and the elder simply frowns at the other, making him laugh. 

“What the hell are you talking about?” Killer’s eyes narrow, but he relaxes his shoulders, feels the uncomfortable dig of bone into wood through his shirt, lets the feeling ground him. The performer’s hands found their way to his hips, slipping under his shirt, impossibly cold on the blonde’s skin, and it makes Killer scrunch his nose. 

“The motherfucker who… the guy…” Kid’s scrunching now, brow furrowed, face buried in his own coat and reveling in the feel of goose flesh prickling under his questing fingers, excited by the ability to draw an undeniable reaction from the older. It's uneven and clammy, and it makes Kid's palms sweat and cheeks hurt from a lopsided grin that he loses as he tries fruitlessly to push the word from his tongue, generate the correct phrase.

“Ringmaster.” Killer’s quip is quick, sharp despite the sanded edge of sleep, his tone lethal and matter-of-fact enough to start more than a couple fights, but the redhead takes it in stride, smiling into the cotton bunched below Killer’s ear and wiggling his fingers on the other’s hips, nails playing over the panes of his abdomen. The blonde inhales slow.

“Yeah, him. Pay is shit. Uniforms are shit--you know how long I had to negotiate for this sick fit? Too damn long. I’m better than that sack of shit.” Killer nods, the beginning of a snicker before he stops himself. The younger’s face gives a minute twitch, an annoyed flare of the eyebrow, but he continues, talking close enough that the blonde’s ears warm at the soft puff of his breath, making the back of his neck tickle with the raising of the fine hair there.

“I’m called ‘Captain’ for a reason, eh? Think I can pull it off?” His tone is edged with something tinny and high that the other can’t really place, but is otherwise rich and low, rough and mature for a youth, a note deeper than Killer, freshly twenty years old-- he's not quite sure either, now that he thinks of it.

“I think you’d know,” Killer’s own voice is incredibly clear, rough like the sea and speaking of champagne and crystal in contrast to the callous of his thumbs at the bend of the younger’s elbows, and Kid curses the thumping of his heart for competing with the noise. 

It’s the right answer. The redhead hums, and gives another gleeful wiggle against his torso, the blanket shifting at their feet as he brings their soft movement into the equation of his contentment. He smacks his lips, aching to kiss the other man, but resolves to burying his head further into the blonde's chest. He feels a rumble, warm sonority as the other begins speaking.

"Got a plan?" 

He warms his own voice to respond.

**Author's Note:**

> Been a couple weeks since I fed this tag, lol. Wrote this up in a couple hours and it got away from me. Lots of stuff in this AU that I didn't really fit in, but it's not a big deaaal. Really like the idea of a circus, though, haha, they really are charming (rights violations aside, lmao). Please drop a comment if you can, lol, love that shit.
> 
> hazeism.tumblr.com


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